


Filling for the Man

by quietlyhabibti



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:17:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietlyhabibti/pseuds/quietlyhabibti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fills that were completed for hobbit_kink on Livejournal.<br/><b>Currently</b>:<br/>Bofur discovers deaths of Fili, Kili  after the BoFA<br/>Dwalin learns of Balin's death in Moria<br/>Thorin punishes Fili, Fili likes it<br/>Fili and Kili exchange innocent brotherly kisses<br/>Thorin has to reset Bilbo's dislocated fingers<br/>Dis braids Thorin's hair to soothe him<br/>Gandalf saves someone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only lads (Bofur)

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any rights to _The Hobbit_ , _Lord of the Rings_ or anything mentioned within its works or my own. This is not for profit, for entertainment only.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bofur learns that Fili and Kili, his dear young "lads," have not survived the Battle of Five Armies.  
> WARNINGS: Character death, h/c.

When he sees the matted blond hair, his knees become weak.

"No," Bofur whimpers helplessly, "no, please." There's a moment where the air leaves his lungs and the world goes silent. It feels like an eternity. He kneels beside the slain dwarf, hands outstretched. Bile rises and tears well up but Bofur never notices. His eyes are fixed on the lad at his knees, the young prince who sought an adventure too big for him. No, it wasn't the journey, it was the battle. It was the spear that lodged itself gruesomely between ribs of the boy. Blood stains the earth beneath Fili's body, pools silently and slowly. The mourner wipes the dirt from his prince's face, breaks the spear with quivering hands, and tries to hold himself upright.

Dizziness hits Bofur in waves and he doesn't realize that he's standing, calling out a name that won't be answered. A stone's throw from the firstborn, another brother is found, bow still in hand. He tastes vomit and stumbles only once toward the corpse. Kili looks peaceful, he decides, as if he were sleeping. But he's not, he won't wake when Bofur touches his face, pulls his arms across his chest, allows a sob to find a voice. There is little consolation in the actions but he doesn't mind; they need to be done. For the youngest of the company, the journey for a home he never knew was something glorious to him. When he listened to Balin's descriptions of Erebor, his eyes filled with a childlike wonder and he seemed even younger then.

Now, the lads of Durin have no more thoughts of Erebor, no more of hunger or spiders or wood-elves or goblins. Bofur weeps for them in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, feeling her weight on his heart.

"Oh, but they were only lads. Just... young _lads_." He chokes then and looks up to the sky. Clouds lazily go overhead, ignorant. "Mahal, protect them in death." The words are almost lost, held loosely on an exhale.

A part of him feels as though the mountain herself mourns the deaths that day.

Years pass, Bilbo returns to his hole under the hill, the dwarves rebuild their kind and their kingdoms, a sense of normalcy returns to the survivors. He never forgets the lads, no, how could he? Sometimes he hears a laugh rise over the others at dinner and the memory of a beardless dwarf with so much heart appears. Or maybe a flash of gold recalls the thought of a confident prince who offered up smirks more often than smiles.

Bombur brings joy back to him, makes him smile and laugh afterwards. He knows what his older brother needs and Bofur is ever grateful. Their cousin does the same, opening a toy shop for them in which to whittle and carve as more dwarflings sprout up. It passes that time and offers a chance to be useful, bring smiles to babes looking for a friend in a wooden doll.

He crafts dolls to look like the lost line of Durin, Thorin, Dis, Fili, Kili. They smile toothily back at him, look stubborn and battle-ready, laugh at a joke by the camp's fire.

The feeling of cool skin still lingers on his calloused fingertips.


	2. Deep loss (Dwalin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Some time in the future, Dwalin learns of the death of Balin in Moria.  
> And for the first time since anyone can remember the gruff warrior can't hide his pain and tears.  
> basically Dwalin learning that his brother is dead, and breaking down in grief.  
> WARNINGS: Canon character death

His first thought is the warmth his brother's laugh brought him.

Balin was older, more responsible and severe when they lived in Erebor. He defended his king and kingdom fiercely, a trusted friend of the young royal Thorin, and most thought him too stiff during those peaceful times. Too wizened for their great luck. But Balin knew of the king's sickness, of the gold's power over him, and he feared what would come - what came.

Every night, though, Balin would come home and sit with his brother, talk and drink and laugh. Dwalin remembers the feeling that spread through him at that deep, belly laugh, the heat that accompanied the grin. Never knew why he loved the laughs but when Erebor was taken, the laughs dwindled down, they became empty and breathy.

"Leave," Dwalin murmurs. He doesn't watch as the messenger leaves, barely waits for the door to shut to allow himself a moment. Grief washes over him, roars painfully in his ears and numbs his limbs. He ends up on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, and his body shakes with the sobs he would've attempted to hold in any other time.

Killed, they said, by orcs. Overrun and cornered, Moria was taken, Balin killed.

Their past runs across him and he feels tired down to his core. He thinks to the time that Balin taught him the secret to hand-to-hand combat - the punch to the throat - and the sputtering, almost drowned out by the laughter, that followed. He remembers the way his brother coddled him, sneaking over an extra mug of ale that night, the jests at his expense. He smiles angrily at the memory and swipes a tear off his nose.

Dwalin stands and all he can feel is frustration. Or maybe pain. It's bitter, whatever it is, leaves a bad taste in his throat that accompanies the lump. It's hard to swallow. "Damn it, brother, I just..." He inhales sharply, his chest tight. "I wish you would've run." _But you were too brave, too good_. Picking up a picture Ori had drawn during their journey for Erebor, Dwalin shudders again. The faint lines have worn slightly with age and the barrel ride to Lake-town but Balin's eyes are exact, warm and laughing.

The last thing he thinks of that night is Balin, wise, laughing, loving.


	3. Returning the favor (Thorin/Fili)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: In an immature moment, Fili commits an offense that Thorin simply can't ignore, and though the task will give him no pleasure, Thorin must take his belt to the lad.  
> BONUS:....The problem is how much Fili enjoys it.

"Why did you do it?"

Thorin sees his eldest sister-son shift uncomfortably but offer no response. "Fili."

The dwarf-lad starts at his name and looks up. "We didn't actually start it, Uncle, he did," Fili sputters, "You know, when he laced Kili's boots to the table. I was just getting ba-"

"Enough." Rubbing his brow, Thorin sits and motions shortly with his free hand. "Dress down."

Scarlet tints Fili's cheeks behind his beard as he unties his breeches, gives them a small tug, and lets them pool around his ankles. Cold air bites at his thighs but he doesn't move until Thorin instructs him to do so, lest he face more berating.

"Come here." Thorin watches the lad's face scrunch up in anticipation of the blows. "Across my knee, let us be quick about this." Embarrassment is new for this type of meeting but Fili is no longer a dwarfling and there is something else in the air, a heavier sense of shame and discomfort. Fili lies across his uncle's knees, belly down, holding himself steady by the arm of the chair.

A hand lands solidly on Fili's arse, sharp and not completely unwelcome. "Count." Fili gasps and manages a "One" before the second blow comes, same intensity and skillfully aimed for the same spot. There's something mingling with the pain, a pleasure that sends sparks to his groin and by the fifth smack, Fili is holding in sounds softer than groans.

"Five."

Thorin, who isn't completely oblivious to the occurrences in his lap, tries to decipher the younger dwarf's face as he lands another smack. There's a moment of surprise mixed with pain before his expression melts into a guilty arousal. The ninth and tenth slaps prove his theory true as he feels a pressure against his thigh, in line with Fili's hips. He almost tosses the smaller dwarf off of him then, flustered by the predicament they found themselves in, but decided against it: Fili would surely try to explain his body's reaction and frankly, Thorin wasn't interested.

"Five more, count louder," he grumbles, embarrassment warming his cheeks. Fili continues to obey, though it's growing increasingly obvious that arousal is close to taking over. He knows he's showing a bit too much enjoyment and the sensible part of his mind is telling him to get up, dress, flee before anything else happens but with each smack, the rational voice grows quieter and the coil in his belly grows hotter. 

Unconsciously, he begins to rock with each hit, rubbing into his uncle's thigh for nice friction, and he is no longer counting, exhaling sharply to punctuate each time Thorin's hand touches him. He loves it, the feeling of calloused fingers unintentionally dragging across reddened skin, Thorin's other hand between his shoulder blades.

Fili hears the groan escape as if it wasn't him who made it and his uncle freezes. The last hit never comes, Fili is too ashamed to even stay long enough for explanations, hardly enough time to tie his breeches completely.

"Don't do that again," he hears Thorin say but about what, he doesn't know.


	4. Mother's remedy (Thorin/Bilbo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo somehow dislocates all the fingers on his right hand or something of the like and Thorin has to sit him down away from the group and reset each one.  
> BONUS  
> \- Thorin is very sorry and soft because he's causing his hobbit pain  
> \- Really squicky description of the injuries  
> \- Afterwards/during there are lots of kisses  
> THE ENTIRE INTERNET if Bilbo initially tries to hide the injury from Thorin because he knows it's going to hurt so much and that the dwarf is going to insist that they get fixed.

The troll's fingers are like stones, grimy, foul-smelling stones, but stones that pinch his body uncomfortably. Bilbo squirms and pushes but there is no give. Their voices rumble through his bones as they discuss the best techniques in which to cook him - he really doesn't enjoy the sound of that.

And then he hears him, that beardless dwarf that led him into this mess, and he is alone. Bilbo feels what little hope arose begin to fade because this is quite ridiculous, even for a company of dwarves. As he feels himself being tossed onto this lone savior, there they are, charging into the campsite, slashing at the ankles of the trolls and batting at their knees and poking at their outstretched hands.

But the crack of his hand overwhelms the tussle around him. He gasps, unable to conjure up any other noise or reaction, and tries to move his right hand and he simply _can't_. Bilbo feels the fainting spell come about, allows it to swallow him and cover his vision with stars and black, because this adventure has surely gotten out of hand far too quickly.

When he wakes in a burlap sack, feeling rather like a loony, Bilbo notices his hand is numb. He pushes that thought to the back of his mind as the task of getting all of them out of this predicament is much more important, he decides early on. Time. He wrestles time out of these trolls - _not so bright_ , he remarks to himself - and even gets a few threats out of the dwarves. And then there's Gandalf, bringing warm sunlight with him, and he sighs, relief light in his chest, sleep pleading in his limbs.

There is little time for dawdling, well, at least after they've snooped through the troll cave, and they set off riding soon after. Bilbo keeps his mouth shut about his injury; he recalls the time he fell from the tree back in the Shire and his shoulder popped out awkwardly, the pain that burned through him with every breath, the horrible act of setting that followed his tearful journey home. He knows that having to do that to each finger of his hand would be excruciating so he keeps his eyes on the path and his mouth busy on the end of his pipe.

He separates himself that night, hardly touching his own bowl of mushroom and carrot stew, because the pain is now nauseating. At the base of each puffy finger, purple blooms as though he had smashed berries there and the knuckles are sticking against the stained skin jaggedly, a few pushed too far right for his liking. One knuckle broke the skin during the fall and the now brown scab spans the distance between his middle finger and pinky. Bilbo retches after making the mistake of trying to curl them.

"Halfling," he hears behind him. Anxiety courses through him and he swipes away the sick from his mouth before turning around to see Thorin looming over him. "What's the matter?"

"N-nothing," Bilbo stammers, tugging slightly at the hem of his coat sleeve to cover his swollen hand.

Thorin kneels in front of him, gingerly taking said hand in his own, but gingerly isn't soft enough and he elicits a choked cry from the hobbit. "This doesn't look like 'nothing'. When did this happen?" He lifts Bilbo's arm to inspect it in the low glow of the distant fire.

"Yesterday, when the troll threw me. I just landed on it strangely is all. Really, it's nothing."

Not dissuaded by the half-hearted pleas, the dwarf moves to sit next to him and rolls up the sleeve gently. "These will have to be set," he murmurs, glancing up to see a blanched face, "or else you'll lose use of it." Thorin removes one of his gloves and hands it to his patient. "Bite down on this. It's better than biting off your tongue. Look away." There's something new creeping into the gruff leader's voice, something quite unlike what Bilbo has heard before.

There's a sickening pop and Bilbo is almost sure his hand is aflame. The leather between his teeth does little to help the scream that rips through his throat. He feels tears stream down the sides of his face, spilling onto his lapel, but he never takes his eyes off of the stars above his head. Another digit is slid back into place with no warning.

Lips meet his cheek mid-sob and Bilbo looks to the perpetrator. Thorin's face is soft, brows furrowed, eyes meeting the hobbit's and he gives a sad smile. "My mother would try to ward off the pain when I was young. That was her way, she was very caring. For my nephews, my sister did the same." Another pop, another muffled scream, another small kiss placed onto Bilbo's cheek, this time the opposite.

"I'm sorry to do this," Thorin whispers, face still close to Bilbo's, and he sets another finger, breaking the scab slightly. This kiss lands on the corner of Bilbo's tight mouth and red rushes into their cheeks.

Bilbo removes the glove and gasps like a fish out of water, chilled air filling his lungs. Bile is scratching at his throat, the woods now seem too close, and he's grabbing Thorin with his free hand, fingers digging into his shoulder. He feels so foolish and rather unlike himself for all this weeping and all he wants is this to be finished.

The final finger is slid into place and Thorin's mouth catches his own, swallowing the broken sob and his rough fingers are dabbing the tears away. Repeatedly, he whispers "I'm sorry", accenting each with a small kiss on the hobbit's mouth, nose, cheeks.

When Bilbo's breaths slow to a somewhat normal rhythm, he lets his hand fall from Thorin's shirt, head resting against his chest. "Thank you," he croaks, almost too softly, but Thorin responds with a soft kiss atop his head.

"My burglar can't be broken, not out here." There's a smile dancing in his voice.


	5. Habitual love (Fili, Kili, Bilbo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fili and Kili think nothing of giving each other innocent pecks, nothing sexual. Some of the dwarves think it's cute, some think it's strange.

The first time Bilbo sees it, it's after the little mocking sing-along the dwarves had in his dining room and kitchen. It's a quick meeting of lips, full of smiles and chuckles, that lasts only a second. He thinks nothing of it as he mourns for his poor pantry.

The second time, though, they are sitting in the woods, enjoying a short lunch that involves more pipeweed than actual food, and the blond one - he learns their names later - leans to the dark one and it's nothing. He hears the mute one, the one with the ax in his forehead, grunt but says nothing to anyone.

Bilbo himself finds it odd: in the Shire, Hobbits simply didn't kiss in public often, especially if they were related - which he learned soon after, as well. Mothers place kisses on the foreheads of their children and perhaps young Hobbitlads and -lasses test out little pecks in the shade of the trees but rarely when they are older. So he finds himself frowning whenever those grinning boys place their lips together, however brief. _Brevity does not make it nonexistent_ , he asserts with a curt nod to himself.

Through each occurrence, he seeks out the reactions of the dwarves surrounding him. Some pay no mind, like Dwalin and Bombur, but others like Bifur and Dori always seem to sprout a frown when lips graze. Bofur, he observes, neither hates it nor encourages it, though he allows himself a small smile. When Bilbo questions him later about it, he says that it's nice to see simple pleasures like that in the wilderness, on a dangerous adventure. Bilbo doesn't claim to understand or approve but he doesn't argue either.

The thoughtless kisses plague his mind when they ride for hours in silence. He watches the two perpetrators as they share a small loaf of bread between themselves and finds himself wondering why, how it all began, why it still occurs. So it's just his luck when the young brothers get into a fight that day and refuse to keep watch with one another. Bilbo volunteers, though he's dreadfully drowsy and sore, to sit with Fili, his motives quite different.

They rest in relative quiet with the rustle of leaves as their music before Bilbo manages to form the questions properly - he would hate to come off as a rude Hobbit of all things. "Why do you and your brother, erm, I suppose, kiss?"

Fili peers at him from the side and takes another drag from his pipe before answering. "Kili used to get night terrors and we shared a room. Well, we all did, it was a small little hovel," he sighs what seems like a laugh, "but we shared our own bed. No one wanted to wake Uncle - Thorin, y'know - with his tears and cries. So I would place kisses like Mother would and he would stop. It was soothing for him, I suppose, and I found it to become a habit. We just never grew out of it." He exhales a few shaky smoke rings, a trick Bilbo taught them their first few nights on the road, and smiles. "I love him but it's nothing more than our little ritual."

"How does Thorin feel about it all?" Bilbo can't stop the question and winces when he hears it. Fili just smiles wider, though there is a sadness looming in it.

"He never outwardly disapproved it. He used to have Mother braid his hair when he felt anxious or upset, though he hated when any of us saw it." Bilbo nods slowly, trying to imagine a younger pair of brothers and then, even stranger, a Thorin that wasn't completely collected.

They settle back into silence, maybe even a small doze each, before they decide it's time to wake Bombur and Ori for next watch. Fili places a light peck on his brother's forehead before taking his place beside him, sleep heavy in his limbs.

That night, wrapped snugly in his bedroll, Bilbo dreams of a family living in a hole under the hill, with few kisses and absent love.


	6. Soothing the seething prince (Thorin, Dis)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: How about a teeny tiny little fic of a scene [where Dis braids Thorin's hair]?

"That young prince'll only get us killed, jus' like his father 'fore him. Lost both m'brothers in that las' battle."

A murmured wave of agreement spreads through the bar's patrons and Thorin finds himself seething in the corner, hidden away with a tankard quivering in his hands. How could they offer up dissent so readily, so outright with their mutiny, when he could lead them back home? He was prince of Erebor, line of Durin, and he would slay the Dreadful Worm just to have his home again. Tossing his now empty tankard down, he storms out into the chilled night, drawing a few questioning eyes on his way.

Anger courses through his body and heats his face and suddenly the few layers of fur feel confining and he's ripping at them. Thorin is back at their small house, too enraged to face his sister and her boys, and then tears are welling up on their own volition and he bites his lip to stop them. No use.

"Thorin?" he hears Dis call. He assumes he made a noise against his will and heaves in a deep breath before stepping in, cloak swirling at his ankles. The room is lit by a low fire across the way and Dis is turned around in her chair, sewing resting in her lap. "I thought you would return later."

"No, the crowd tonight was rather unpleasant," he mutters through clenched teeth. Taking longer than needed, he removes his boots and then his cloak, followed by two layers of threadbare coats.

"Thorin." Dis' voice is soft but her face is stern, concern etched in the lines around her eyes. She gestures for him to join her by the fire. "Talk to me, tell me what is the matter." As she speaks, she lays a mat down on the ground at her feet and props a free cushion against the leg of the chair for him.

He takes a seat, crossing his legs with his back to her. Thorin checks to make sure the children aren't around before explaining. "The men are reluctant to go on the journey. I heard them saying I would only get them killed. Cowards, the whole lot of them." He sighs, even though he's beginning to get upset again, because Dis' fingers are running through his hair, dragging across his scalp and it feels blissful.

She's separating the hair above his left ear into three, fingers deft and practiced from many years of rebraiding her own sons' hair but slow, methodical, soothing. "They are men. They are tired and used to this life."

"But does no one want Erebor? Does no one want that horrible monster slain?" Thorin growls out, and he feels like a small boy again, not understanding the veterans and their wearisome attitudes. "If they join me, we can do it. But I can't do it alone."

Dis is shushing him, a kiss to the top of his head accompanying, while she clips the finished braid with her own jewelry. She moves to the other side, fingers massaging his head. Singing a lullaby that he once sang to her in their youth, she swipes a tear from his cheek and continues to braid his hair until she has no more clips.

He is quiet, then, head resting on her knees, eyes closed, braids falling onto his face. They sing the last verse together, voices barely whispers, and it's pleasant.

"I love you, brother."


	7. Wizened savior (Gandalf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gandalf, being observant, wise and just generally awesome, saves someone from being abused (in any way author wishes).

He finds that he's missed the towns of men. Solitude and company of wizards - which seemed just as lonely - over the years had splintered Gandalf's senses and humor. Now that he's acclimated correctly, taking some time to do, he finds their jokes dry but pleasing and takes enjoyment in their foods, though they are a bit heavy on his delicate stomach. Juicy meats, large quantities of potatoes and wheat breads stuff him quickly, much faster than dream tea and leafy meals. Their pipeweed is pleasant and he retires to the corner of the tavern with a small sack of it and a cup of wine he was surprised they offered graciously.

"And he actually took the pig! Can you believe it?" a man roars drunkenly and the laughter bubbles through the room at a joke Gandalf doesn't quite understand. He smiles, though, and puffs out another smoke ring, watching it dance across the ceiling to join its brethren. Eyes closing, he rests against the wall. He's weary but the quiet of a room on the outskirts of town doesn't appeal to him like the chatter he missed so much.

Soon, through a weak haze of smoke and stale ale, he drifts off and dreams of things he oft wishes would go away.

"Get off of me, stop!"

Gandalf sits up, grumbling quietly about the stench of sweat that assaults his nose, and rubs his eyes.

A shrill voice catches his ear, "No, I said stop, you beast! Let g- AH!" Grabbing his staff and adjusting his cloak as quickly as he can, he stands and peers outside, searching for the source of the screams.

There. A woman, obviously shaken, is running, dress ripped and hanging off of her left shoulder slightly. Her blonde hair is wild, the braid coming undone, and her cheeks are reddened but not by the cold air that's been biting at them all winter. Then he sees him, the brute that's strutting after her, grinning as if he's won.

"We'll see about that."

The night is still as he steps out of the tavern, closing the door behind himself, and he walks gingerly into the town. A clatter erupts from his right around the corner and he isn't slow to move toward it.

The man is towering over the woman, who is now sporting a fresh wound, blood seeping into the soft earth beneath her cheek, his back to Gandalf. The old wizard looks to the woman and presses a finger to his lips, hoping she can remain silent to aid his rescue. He sees understanding and a sense of calm washes over her and he offers a small smile before inching forward.

"Yer mine, y'hear? Better get t'listenin' or else that pretty lil face of yers won't be so nice," the man continues, undoing his breeches and palming himself through his underclothes. The woman never lets her eyes off of her savior, each slowing breath stirring the dirt beneath her face. She's lovely, save for the blossoming red around her eyes and bridge of her nose, with dark eyes and a round mouth and Gandalf feels a twinge of sympathy for her.

He straightens completely. "Oh, do you mean to give her a face like yours? I'm afraid you can't make something as grotesque as what you possess," Gandalf says casually but powerfully. The man jumps at the voice and spins around, hands clenched into fists and when he sees the grey beard, he lets out a bark of laughter.

"Ya plan on stoppin' me, old man?" he chuckles. "Don't see how, unless ye think ye can bore me to death."

It's unexpected, the quick movement, the sharp swing of his staff's end into the man's groin. The squeal that leaves the man reminds Gandalf of a pig and he finds that humorlessly befitting. He brings the other end into the man's face as he keels over and when the buffoon lands on his backside while simultaneously crashing into the poorly built contraption, the woman allows herself a smile.

Her hand is chilly, fingertips stained with blood, and Gandalf rubs his thumb along the bones softly, reassuringly. "I apologize for your situation, dear lady." He smiles when she plants a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Be sure to keep safe and warm this winter."

"Thank you," she whispers, voice hoarse and he sees the purple bruises rising along her neck. A pity, he thinks, that she should be subjected to such filth. "I'm afraid I've not much to repay you for your kindness."

Gandalf laughs quietly and the world seems smaller, like it's only them and the groaning mess at their feet. "It's no trouble, I am to be leaving after I escort you home."

The glow of her shy smile leads the way along the wide paths of the town.


End file.
